


No Slip of the Tongue

by deervsheadlights



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Historical Fantasy, M/M, POV Outsider, Patriarchy, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Rumors, Secret Relationship, Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23634649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights
Summary: Many a thing was said of Lord Anthony Stark, Ruler of the Far Lands of Mar'vill, and many did not hold true. Fewer things were said of the Lord's Captain of Guard, but as it was, Sir Steven Rogers had never been a man for wearing his heart on his sleeve.(Or: Five times somebody else told a tale of the Lord and his knight, and one time they told their own.)
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 33
Kudos: 107





	No Slip of the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> i finished the first book of the asoiaf series a while ago, but that's what initially sparked the idea for this fic.
> 
> honestly, i can't tell if this has turned out well or shitty, but i had a lot of fun experimenting and worldbuilding, and that makes it worth it imo. 
> 
> as always, all mistakes are mine. please enjoy the read!

### 1.

In every childhood memory he could recall, Anthony Stark was right there alongside him.

At the age of two, he'd seen inside the Iron Castle. 

The first Starks had erected the eastern watchtower and the innermost walls longer than five centuries ago, right upon the hill above the town of Hattam, with the mountains at back and the city walls in front. 

Old Lord Stark had brought the stone for the foundations all the way from the riverbanks in the west, almost a day’s ride from where the castle now stood gray and tall. For decades upon decades, only the strongest Black Forest horses had drawn carriages laden with boulders from the river of Hudson, until the old Lord’s great-great-great-great-grandson Howard came to power and had seen a stone quarry dug in a vale between the mountains. 

Ever since, the castle had grown towers and barricades and dungeons at a pace like no other; the old rock and the new alike held their own against a dozen armies and many more dozen cold winters, awarding it the name it carried the fateful day a lowborn mother carried her son inside the castle gates.

To the young James Rhodes, the walls of the Iron Castle seemed vast and insurmountable, and the guards looked grim and frightening in their shining armor with polished steel at their hips. He would spend many weeks weeping and begging his mother to return to her father’s homestead in town until he begrudgingly accepted his fate at last. 

She would not hear of his grievances; his mother, a wet nurse, had been entrusted with Lady Maria’s infant son, and there was no dismissing the honor which lay in caring for the Stark heir. With his mother making for a vital role in the Stark household, they enjoyed many privileges; early mealtimes, warm baths every third day and an expansive bedchamber all for themselves were novelties few of the castle's staff would ever experience.

All the years which his mother spent with young Anthony, James was there, watching curiously and soon deciding that he would never cease to watch out for the small, doe-eyed boy in the crib. 

When Anthony had grown old enough to run and play, they became inseparable and remained it even after his mother's presence was no longer required. The young Stark, unwilling to leave his side any time soon and vocally expressing this unwillingness, soon broke his lady mother's last resolve. Lady Maria could never deny her son wishes such as these, so when the time came for them to leave, she requested James' mother stay housed in the castle as her own waiting maid.

The years passed, and as they played and ran and joked together, they soon understood that with their growing bodies, their responsibilities grew as well.

At twelve, wooden swords were forgotten in favor of real steel, though blunt it may have still been. Thanks to his hardworking mother's infallible reputation, the Lord promised him a place in his household guard. While the masters taught Anthony the many crafts and skills a Lord was required to excel in to rule over a castle and the lands beyond, James was to train with the other knights-to-be to one day become a respected member of the Iron Guard. 

To both their dismay, the following years proved trying to their friendship, with their lives so deeply interwoven yet so far apart. The troubling times would only aid their bond to become stronger, however; in the end, they saw there was no helping the fact that they were not boys anymore.

Games and jests would never be a priority again, but they still understood the importance of allowing one another to listen and share the happenings in each of their young lives.

At fourteen, James fell for a fierce blonde and was mocked (albeit amicably) by his best friend when he retold her reaction to his rather bold proposition. Carol, so her name, had only made a face that undoubtedly spoke for itself and then advised the boy in a surprisingly polite tone that he still had many a thing to learn if he ever hoped to convince any one girl of himself.

While James' stories of his adventurous forays into amorous territory always made for entertaining conversational material, it one day struck him that Anthony never really did share anything of the sort himself.

And when he walked in on his friend fervently kissing the stable boy with all the clumsiness of a young love one morning, James understood why. 

They hadn't noticed him that day, and he never made a mention of it afterwards. So it came that only much later, when Anthony asked they go out on a ride together, the boy stated no reason but the unspoken yet obvious dejection eating on him. 

"What is it?" James had asked just an hour into their outing, keeping his tone light. When the other didn't answer, he carefully added, "Howard again?"

That earned him a shake of the head. 

"Your mother?"

Another no.

He thought for a moment and then, slowly, "Does it concern Jarvis?"

With the next sign of no, James felt at a loss. Only… He hesitated, taking in the picture of his friend's clenched jaw and downcast eyes. There was a possibility that revealing this to him would only serve to upset him more, but he could not simply leave it at just that. Anthony was visibly hurting, and he would be damned if he did not try to ascertain what was troubling him with all his might.

"Is it your stable boy?"

Anthony froze visibly, fingers tightening around his horse's reins. A second passed in which he neither breathed, blinked nor moved. Then, he turned to look at James, searching his gaze – and slumped in either relief or defeat. Whatever truth the brunet discovered in his eyes must have been one that placated him however, because he exhaled deeply and nodded at once.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" James asked, but could already see the other shaking his head in the corner of his eye. At least, this secret between them was no more, and for that alone he was grateful. 

A while later, they halted on top of a slight elevation, looking down upon the great expanse of green fields and willow trees below. "Thank you," Anthony said, his voice subdued. It would be the last they would speak of the matter for a long time.

Romance, no matter the kind, did not receive precedence as time wore on. 

Sir James Rhodes was knighted by Lord Howard at eighteen, still young and green despite his prowess and claims to the contrary.

Now formally admitted into the Iron Guard, he was gifted the signature steel-blue armor of the Stark’s household guard, their family insignia – two silver forging hammers crossed over one another – engraved in the chest piece and helm. 

He noticed soon enough that it looked to be only slightly off from those the other knights wore. Not that the work had been done carelessly; it was quite the opposite, truth be told.

The edges and roundings were smoother and more precise in a way that the resident smith’s craft was not. The man, Hogan, was skilled beyond question and worked with unparalleled efficiency, but his work was characterized by its rough and utilitarian features.

With this piece however, the focus lay on all its detail and beauty, the person who had crafted the armor evidently considering its creation not a task but an art. 

A blind man would have known this to be Anthony’s handiwork.

When James confronted his friend about the matter and asked why he didn’t take credit for his craft in the first place, the young man only smiled privately and explained that he did the work for the work’s sake and not a pat on the back.

James was very well aware that Anthony had a passion for the forge, but this explanation seemed unbefitting. Truly, the Stark heir was not one to expect to be showered in compliments for an unprompted act of kindness, but this was not to say he did not crave or go so far as to avoid them.

Lord Howard was as hard a father as he was a ruler and had always been sparing with praise when it came to his son’s achievements, but quick to raise his voice (or hand) if Anthony stepped out of line or so much as uttered a thing he did not approve of.

The young Lord-to-be quickly realized that James was nowhere near convinced. He sighed and confessed, “My father might have found out, and you know how quickly his moods come and go. He would have made me listen to another one of his monologues. ‘We don’t work for the people, Anthony, the people work for _us_ ’. Shall the devil have him, I say.”

James agreed, thanked him and cradled his friend in his arms as close as he was able to, bulky armor and all. 

Five years later, Howard Stark died en route to an allied neighbor, three dozen raiders decimating his guards and torching the wheelhouse he had traveled in.

The young knight would have not much cared for the passing of the old Lord had it not been for Anthony’s beloved mother, who had sat and died right at her husband’s side.

Lady Maria’s fate threw the young Lord Stark into a depression so severe he almost found death at its hands himself, not least because Howard’s counselor Obadiah Stane had attempted to overthrow his reign in his time of weakness with a ragtag mob of sellswords and renegade knights from the Iron Guard.

Anthony made it out alive, if only by a hair’s breadth. Stane was beheaded a fortnight after. The once trusted man’s treason seemed to have shaken him out of his grief-induced apathy, and he began to take on the role of his departed father in earnest.

Suddenly, he was near mad with zeal, revealing plans and ideas James had never heard him speak of before, presenting designs of contraptions that promised to bring unprecedented progress to the lands and working into the night often days without pause. 

After months of being pestered to take better care of his own well-being – not only courtesy of Sir James but Ms. Potts, newest member of the castle and without question the most qualified steward and wittiest personality Mar’vill had ever seen – Anthony yielded to their requests.

Of course, he neither stopped to invent technical marvels nor did he discontinue to utterly disregard societal norms. Soon after having put Ms. Virginia in charge of not only the castle’s but also most of his land’s finances, he agreed to integrate a very determined and very capable hired sword into the ranks of his household guard. (James openly gaped when he came to know her name.)

As good as the things stood, the bliss did not last forever. It seldom did. 

They had both matured over the years, so when Lord Anthony and Sir Rhodes, now Captain of the Guard, received word of a madman overrunning the outer regions of the kingdom with a tireless, ruthless army that was said to comprise of roughly four thousand mounted soldiers and another six on foot, it was evident the king and all high and low royals would have to join forces if they hoped to vanquish this tyrant and stop the bloodshed of innocents.

The conqueror had fought his way into the kingdom’s heartland, Klynn its name, when Lord Anthony finished all the preparations needed to mobilize roughly three quarters of the entirety of Mar’vill’s Iron Guard, leaving only a small portion to keep order within.

Klynn, in common parlance aptly titled the land where the rivers meet, lay just north of their homeland. The party was forced to negotiate a steep mountain passage to reach the swampland where the battles currently raged; while they did not suffer any losses on their journey, the knowledge that it was bound to happen all the same hung heavy in the air.

A sweeping gaze over the vale that lay before them revealed that they were not alone, however.

On the horizon, Lord Wayne's yellow banners flapped in the wind as his party approached. To their right, men of old Lord Xavier's held his dark red sigil high and proud, and on the left, Lady Everheart's Justice Guard came riding on blinding white steeds. Even Lord Von Doom had made an appearance, his troops clad in forest-green armor already storming onto the battlefield to aid the weakened King's Guard and Klynn's Lord Pym against the hostile forces.

Thanos, the tyrant called himself, a giant of eight feet in height and almost half as wide at that. James had assumed his flaming sword to be nothing more but a silly rumor, but as they came to a stop upon a hill above the swamplands, he could make out the madman in the midst of the battle, slashing left and right with a blade engulfed in flames that was nearly as tall as himself.

"From the cradle to the grave," Anthony said, a wry smile crooking his lips as he regarded the scene below.

Grim determination threw dark shadows across the ridges in his face and when he pulled his helm's visor down, their eyes locked, silent gazes speaking all the words they could not say.

One of the few Lords to join the fight in person, Anthony rode into battle next to James that day, armor plated in gold and red fire that stood out against his knights’ steel-blue like a beacon in the dark.

After a long and tiring fight that cost many a brave man his life, Anthony too was gravely injured by a wound in the abdomen. He seemed to understand it as his duty to perform one last heroic act, fending off the burning steel in the tyrant’s hand with only his armored forearm to distract his opponent long enough to bring up his own sword and stab it clear through the titan's throat.

The hymns written about this war did not do justice to the sacrifices made, but songs seldom spoke of horror and blood.

For a time, James feared he would abandon the battlefield without his oldest friend by his side, but the gods had decided to spare him. Through some miracle working of one medicine man turned wizard by the befitting name of Strange, Anthony had lost neither his life nor his arm that day.

Screamed and cried and suffered he might have, but it had not been for nothing.

After his men had carried the unconscious Lord Stark off the field, James found himself face to face with a dirty blond man looking just the other side of thirty whom the battle had left the worse for wear. 

The knight remembered spotting him at the very front of the crowd that had come to watch Strange use his abilities to save Anthony from certain death, but had not paid any further attention to his rather unobtrusive looks.

He wore shabby linen clothes under simple leather guards strapped to his arms and legs speckled with dirt and blood, some of which appeared to be his own. A puncture wound in his thigh caused him to limp as he approached, face not even contorting in a way that would betray the pain he must have undoubtedly been in.

“Will he pull through?” the stranger inquired, gesturing toward the men that were carrying Anthony back to where they had set up camp the day prior.

James considered this to be a rather strange way to introduce oneself, but he was tired from the long day and aching in his back since he'd fallen off his mount as someone put an arrow clean through its head, and could not be bothered to make a mention of it.

He nodded. “Yes, thankfully.” James outstretched his hand for a formal introduction, “Sir James Rhodes, Iron Guard.”

Quickly, the other man clasped his hand. “Rogers. Steven. My pleasure. I am aware Strange does quite live up to his name, but I had the sense he might be the only one who would still be able to help a man in a condition as dire as Lord Stark’s.”

The knight uttered a sound of surprise. He’d already assumed the man was not hailing from Mar’vill, but it was only now that he was able to fully place his accent. “Well, I presume thanks are in order, then. I understand you are from around here?”

Rogers shook his head. “From the Irôc Isles, originally. I,” he paused, swaying a little on his feet. “I have not been there in a long time, so that may explain why I do not sound like my people anymore.”

Sir James regarded him silently for a beat, the man struggling to stay upright as exertion and injury drained him of his remaining strength. He did not belong to any royal guard nor did he seem to have been hired to fight; it appeared he was there simply for the cause, willing to lay down his life in a war against uncompromising evil.

“Come, then,” James said, finally. “I would like you to join me in our camp. There is food and drink and someone will tend to your wounds.”

Seeing as Strange had disappeared the minute he finished his work, Anthony would undoubtedly want to meet the other man who was in part responsible for saving his life. 

In reality, Lord Stark spent the following days in and out of consciousness and although his life was no longer hanging by a thread, he was in no condition to interact with anyone longer than his continued well-being required. 

On the fifth day, he had recovered from the worst of it, still visibly aching if he so much as moved but his head much clearer than it had been.

On the seventh, a knight of the King’s Guard requested to speak to him, a carrier pigeon with a gray coat perched on his shoulder. James led him into the tent and listened in from his spot next to Anthony’s cot as the man relaid his message.

“Lord Anthony Stark of Mar’vill,” he greeted formally, unrolling a piece of parchment he’d retrieved from underneath his coat, “I deliver this message to you at the behest of His Grace, King Nicholas Fury. A portion of the Guard has returned to King’s Landing and given an account of the events of the last battle. The King has sent word that you and your Captain of Guard are to report to the throne as soon as your physical condition allows for it. His Highness will host you and a small party inside the castle and meet you promptly after your arrival. It is his intention to honor your service to the Kingdom and see to it that the losses Mar’vill has suffered are compensated.” 

The young knight handed the letter over to Anthony, who inspected the King’s golden sigil, now broken, and quickly skimmed the contents of the message.

When he returned the parchment, he smiled and bid the messenger goodbye politely, but James saw the devious spark in his eyes as the man left the tent.

“Well then, how about we find out just which favors King Fury will be ready to grant us?”

James only barely refrained from reminding him that the King was not a magical fae who would fulfill his wishes if he just asked nicely enough. Barely, but he did. His friend had stood on the brink of death just recently, and the knight felt it was right and just to allow some leniency. 

Anthony, although he had yet to recover fully from his injuries, insisted they set out on their journey to King’s Landing only three days later. His condition didn’t allow for him to travel on horseback, so he begrudgingly accepted his place in the back of the wheelhouse a local merchant had provided them with. 

They sent Mar’vill’s guard back to home pastures – all but six capable swordsmen who would ensure the Lord remain safe on his travels.

Anthony, of course, claimed that he did not need to be escorted by half a dozen men who could do many other, much more useful things with the time they now wasted, but James chose not to listen. He was the Captain of Guard, and he would not take unnecessary risks. 

Once dawn broke, their small party packed up and prepared for departure. It was then that James once again found himself in the presence of Steven Rogers, whom had resided in their camp ever since the battle. 

Sir Rhodes had observed the man in secret during his stay and discovered that not only was he a capable swordsman, but a kind one as well. His leg had not yet healed, but he was not to be convinced to lay down – instead, he had spent all week seeking out work to do and badly wounded men to aid in their own recovery. 

He was still favoring his left leg, but now too, the man approached him with intent – as much was obvious when he requested, "If it please you, I would like to join you for King's Landing, Sir Rhodes."

The knight did not have to think for long. 

It was during their journey that Anthony and the swordsman first made each other’s acquaintance. James was tending to the horses at the end of a long day of uninterrupted travel when he witnessed the incident. 

With his many injuries that had yet to heal, the Lord was struggling to descend from the wheelhouse back onto main land. And of course, Rogers, ever attentive to those around him, came to his aid as soon as he had noticed the man’s struggle.

“And who might you be?” Anthony asked, interest coloring his voice a deeper octave as he laid eyes on the stranger. He took the swordman’s offered hand and braced himself on his broad shoulder to be able to step down onto the ground. 

The other cleared his throat and respectfully backed a few steps away when there was no need for his support anymore. “Steven Rogers, my Lord. I directed the witcher Strange to you after the battle. You do not remember, I imagine, but it shall not matter. I am not here to seek your thanks, only to join you during your travels.”

“Humble _and_ charming, are you now, Steven Rogers?” 

Anthony’s voice carried both a playful and taunting undercurrent; the message in it could be interpreted in whichever way the listener chose to. This was how he would typically test the waters. 

He was anticipating Rogers’ reaction, which, after a moment’s hesitation on the part of the man, turned out to be a startled laugh. “I am under the impression that it is yourself you’re speaking of,” he said, returning the compliment en passant.

James was positive this was the first time Anthony had been caught quite so unawares by someone else’s words. It was amusing to witness.

–

Outside the city gates of King's Landing, the King's golden banners flapped in the wind, the jet-black, great eagle sat in their middle seemingly spreading its wings to take flight. 

His Highness' palace was great and the throne room lavish in equal measures. King Fury had not been the one to have it built; he had simply struck down the man who had sat on the throne before him. Alexander Pierce had been little more than a tyrant and the Kingdom including its people was gladdened to be rid of him. 

During his musings, James regarded the man now reigning over the kingdom with scepticism. It appeared to be a never-ending cycle, this battle between the allegedly good and evil. One would climb the throne, turn bitter and cruel, and another would come to vanquish him only to one day find himself walking down the same, sinister path.

It was only the hope that King Fury would remain the kind ruler he'd so far proven to be that caused Sir Rhodes to oblige by his demand that he step forward.

For the better part of their hearing in the throne room, Lord Stark had been arguing with the man as if His Grace was a simple commoner and not the highest of royalty. James had feared they would be throwing him in the dungeons any moment now, but he had not stepped in – as was expected of him. 

As soon as his attention was called for, however, he looked up at the King, imposing in his dark robes and strongly contrasting crown. He was sure he would find out soon enough why it was that Anthony wore a satisfied smile and the King a mildly disgruntled expression. 

"Sir Rhodes, I believe it is your Lord's intention that you be promoted in rank," he began.

"We have suffered losses in this war, and a territory south of Mar'vill is currently without leadership. Lord Killian has left no successors, and so I meant for these lands to fall under Stark governance. But, I have been made aware that Lord Anthony considers this to be 'bothersome' and 'frankly, too much of a hassle', and he has suggested a solution which he claims will benefit all involved."

The King paused, a sigh falling from his lips as he caught the Lord's smug expression. Then, he looked at James. 

"Now, I ask you: Would you consider it within your realm of ability to assume this duty, Lord Rhodes?" 

–

Sir James Rhodes was granted lordship by King Fury that same day. 

His Highness sent out carrier pigeons and messengers to spread the word and rally up what was left of Killian's forces. Rebuilding efforts would have to be begun in haste, and so as soon as dawn broke the following morning, both Lords, one born and one made, set off on the journey back to Mar'vill. 

They were joined by Anthony's guards, one Steven Rogers, and another small party sent by the King that was James' to lead. The days of travel back to familiar territory appeared longer than those to King's Landing had ever been, although James mused this might stem from his own anticipation for what was to come. 

Anthony, for one, did not mind the days on the road quite as much as he usually would. Lord Rhodes was under no delusion as to why this was the case: his friend and Rogers had taken to one another like ducks to water. 

They spent many a day in one another's presence, Anthony's head appearing in the window of the wheelhouse more often than not to greet the swordsman riding next to him with some jest or other. Even during the evenings, they would be caught speaking in hushed voices in the light of the fire. 

If James found both their bedrolls empty one night and frantically searched for Anthony until he came across sounds deeper in the woods that indicated the Lord was most definitely not being abducted against his will, he did not say. 

When it was time for their parties to part ways, Lord Rhodes was the opposite of bewildered to find Rogers fall into line with Anthony's guard. It seemed like the natural order of things, if anything at all. 

He embraced the other Lord a final time. They had already discussed everything that called for it. James would return another time to the Iron Castle to gather is personal possessions and furthermore receive all the aid needed from Mar'vill in his efforts to rebuild Extrenia, the territory of the south. 

"Will you ask him to join the guard?" 

Anthony did not pretend not to understand. He searched for Rogers' face amongst his men and smiled. 

"Yes. He is a good man." 

This was answer enough. James nodded in thought and clasped his friend's shoulder for a last time. 

"That he is," he said, turning to his mount and pulling himself up to its back. 

Anthony saw him off with a grin bright as the early morning sun, although his arm must have still hurt as he waved him off.

–

After James' last return to Mar'vill, many long months passed.

There was no time to cultivate old friendships when so much more was to be attended to. He had a greater responsibility now, had to not only command a guard but care for land and people, and so it came that half a year went by before he came to Anthony again. 

Or, as it was, Anthony had come to see him in the old castle, now made new by many long months of work. He demanded to be shown around the territory and appeared rather eager, so James humored him in his request. 

They rode out early in the morning, only stopping for a brief rest, and had been trotting along a tranquil creek in comfortable silence for a while before Lord Rhodes found it in him to speak up again. 

"So, how is Steven faring these days?" James asked, failing to keep the meaningful undertone from coloring his voice. 

His friend looked off to the side and did not answer. He wore that same look of inner strife James felt he'd seen once before. He was taken back to their youth and that first time Anthony had allowed him a look at his true self.

The knight-turned-lord cleared his throat. "I hope he is good to you?" he inquired, voice free of judgement but with an edge to it that suggested consequences would arise for the man in question should the answer be no.

Lord Stark's good hand fiddled with his mount's reins, yet again reminding of that day they'd ridden out. Then he raised his head, gaze fixed to a point in the distance.

James saw him smile in a way he would consider lovestruck, almost timid, were it not for his friend's generally non-timid demeanor.

"Very," he said.

They spoke of it no more.

### 2.

The first time Natalia Romanova saw herself face to face with the great Lord Stark, she near broke two fingers on his right hand.

She had joined to dine with the Lords and Ladies in the great hall of the Iron Castle upon request of Lord Rhodes.

Being a hired sword under Rhodes' command, she felt out of place amongst silk gowns and silver cutlery and would've much rather spent the evening in the small hall to eat in her friends' company. Sellswords, poachers and knives were people she liked to surround herself with, but she knew not to let discomfort show.

An invitation to this table was an honor, after all.

Though the feast was being held in the great hall, the number of attendants in relation to the seats available was rather small. In the end, it came down to two dozen men and women; the host took his time to greet every one of them as they entered the hall with its tall ceiling and chandeliers glimmering in the candle light.

Lord Stark was a man of olive skin, raven hair and not very much taller than her. It was with a frankly large portion of astonishment that Natasha caught sight of his right hand, all scar tissue and long since healed burns.

According to folklore, he had acquired these wounds during the battle in the Vale of York, where he'd fought and triumphed over the Titan who was said to wield a burning sword. She'd always assumed this to be tale over truth, but the marks on the man's skin told her she might be mistaken; mistakes made for a distant relative Natalia seldom had the misfortune of encountering.

Not one to let a simple misgiving throw her off balance, she directed her attention toward the present Lord Stark.

He wore a velvet doublet the color of wine and a black cloak trimmed with golden silk, and possessed a blinding smile, a demeanor so eccentric it should not have fit the room and the ability to produce unending strings of words at any given moment in time. He seemed every bit like all other high royals she'd encountered in her lifetime and nothing like the warrior they called the Man of Iron who struck down Thanos the tyrant on that fateful day.

There were hymns and hero's tales written about this Lord, yet she could not see how or why the Lord Rhodes she knew would speak so highly of this man. 

Until the very moment she found herself at the full attention of the subject of her scrutiny, that was.

When Lord Anthony greeted her with a "My Lady," smiling still and somehow smelling of lavender, something within her bristled. 

As he bent down and reached for her hand to press a delicate kiss to her knuckles, Natasha wrenched his fingers from her with a practiced move that had the man stifling a pained cry. She smiled pleasantly and Lord Rhodes on her left hid his laugh behind a sudden coughing fit. 

"I fear I am no lady, Lord Stark," she said, "but I find myself grateful for your hospitality nonetheless."

Stark took this with a surprising amount of dignity. The wide smirk stretching his lips was immediate and genuine, his dark, pointy beard accentuating the angular shape of his face as if he considered her reaction intriguing and amusing rather than off-putting.

"You…are… most welcome," the man answered, quiet amazement instead of the venom she had expected in his voice. 

She had to admit the reaction was a pleasant, if strange surprise. Another Lord would have her thrown outside the castle gate at once, yet this one seemed charmed rather than insulted in his pride.

He merely took one last look at Lord Rhodes with a spark of mischievous humor in his eyes and pointed them both to seats close to the head of the table, at which roast turkey and various side dishes were already being served. 

The shrewd glint in James' gaze insinuated that he had hoped for a scenario like this. Few people could play Natalia Romanova for a fool and survive, but Rhodes seemed to have meant only to embarrass his friend, which she figured she could excuse. It had been amusing, after all.

Natasha prided herself on her gift of observation, and Lord Stark was a most curious man to observe.

Throughout the evening, he would entertain and joke with his guests like not even the jester of the court could, and laughter filled the hall at all times. His humor was as quick-witted as the man himself and by the end of it, he had charmed every Lady in his presence, no matter whether she had a husband sitting to her left or not. 

While some of the high Lords in his attendance seemed to be positively fuming with jealousy at his antics, Natasha saw the man's jabs and flirtations as they were: empty talk and games. Despite making eyes at every Lady in the room, Stark did not look at any one of them any longer than it took to soft-soap them. 

It was no secret among the people that Anthony Stark of Mar'vill had yet to take a lady wife, and so high and small lords from the farthest corners of the kingdom would leap at every opportunity to introduce their dear daughters to the Man of Iron, hoping one of them arouse his interest.

So too was this feast an opportunity, and the young ladies who'd come chaperoned by their fathers, uncles or brothers received their share of adoration from the Lord as well, no more and no less.

For all his philandering, Anthony Stark seemed to take remarkably little interest in the intimacies of women. 

Over the past years, it was rumored he had found a love in the gallant Ms. Potts, steward of the castle and Stark's most trusted counselor. While the news of a woman steward were unheard of, a secret affair between a common carpenter's daughter and her Lord would be considered simply outrageous. 

Many had speculated the eccentric Lord Stark would not care for the sentiments and customs of fellow highborn folk and announce his betrothal to Ms. Potts soon enough – yet, nothing of the sort had occurred. 

After having been relentlessly pestered about the matter, Potts had merely commented that while she respected and considered Lord Stark one of her dearest friends, they had never nor would they ever share a romantic bond of any kind.

Natalia respected a bond of friendship no matter whom it concerned; still, she found this statement of interest. The carefully selected words of the resident steward would not let her go. It seemed the woman had claimed that not only had nothing happened, but there was no sheer possibility of romance with the Lord Stark she knew, even.

The answer to all the vaguely interwoven questions in her mind came in form of one Lord Justin Hammer the following day. She misliked that truth more than she could say; this man was what she had once feared Anthony Stark might be, yet many times the worse. His person in itself was intolerable, self-serving and presumptuous. His smile was an empty one and his quick tongue only spit lies and deception.

Natasha had trouble keeping her fingers off the daggers in her waistbelt after having first encountered the man.

"You're one of those S'vjetian broads, are you not?" he inquired, baring his teeth as he smiled through a sip of summer wine.

She would not lower herself to a level that would allow her to speak to this man eye to eye. 

"I was. I serve under Lord Rhodes now," she said easily, pulling a knife from her belt to impale a chunk of cooked mutton on its tip. Natalia eyed the man quietly as she took reasonably-sized bites from her meal, mirroring his previous predatory smile when the Lord backed away, looking disheartened at her display.

She had long stopped to care for others' criticism of her ancestry. The S'vjetians were rulers of the Frost Lands across the sea, had been for centuries, and many in the Kingdom of Shields feared them as raiders and savages that brought forth wildlings and warrior brides. Maybe they were wild, Natasha mused, but no more and no less than the people in these lands. 

She had been given away at the age of five to be trained in the arts of swords, fists and shadows, as was customary in her culture. Life was cruel and the people who raised her unkind, and at the age of thirteen, she stole herself away to sneak upon a tradesman's ship that set sail for the largest haven of Mar'vill.

The rest, as they said, was history.

After Lord Hammer had, fortunately, lost interest in her existence, he began to joke and jest with the people around him. They all were of his own entourage, household knights and other members of his court – all but the quiet, brooding Lord Von Doom who was a whole other kind of unpleasant and seemed hurt in his pride after having been denied his request to attend Lord Stark's private festivities. 

Anthony Stark understood the courtesy of inviting even the less pleasant royals to his castle and his feasts, but only the ones whose company he did indeed enjoy would be asked to join him in the great hall. 

Having listened in on some of the many conversations around her, it appeared quite clear that these men had been barred from attending the Lord's private dinings not without cause.

Hammer took it upon himself to pave the way for a thorough slander of Stark's name, sparking a debate about the many wrongdoings of the very host that provided them with food, drink, shelter and a part in the annual tourney of his own free will.

Why the Lord considered it his duty to host these men whose favorite pastime was taking his name in vain, Natalia could not determine for the life of her.

It was only after many tedious bouts of defamatory talk later that the woman's interest was piqued again. Lord Hammer had not once allowed his cup of wine stay empty, his calls for refills growing harsher and more and more inarticulate as the evening progressed. (The servants were truly being tested for all their patience and willpower that day.)

Soon enough, he was positively slurring, stumbling over words and swallowing vowels like gulps of his beverage. Inebriated, his tongue became looser than it had been even in its natural state; Natasha lifted her head to listen for the first time that night as he spoke.

"You'd not believe if I told you, my friend," he said, addressing Von Doom above all else, "but the high an' mighty Lord Anthony has quite enough dark and dirty secrets himself."

The other Lord had barely drunk a sip at all and wore the look of someone who believed this interaction to be beneath them. In spite of it, he returned, "And I presume you are in the know of one particularly earth-shattering example?"

"Well, to be frank, 'm not sure it is so secret after all, seeing as it even serves as gossip for the washing maids." He laughed at his own words, only continuing after he had recovered from a series of hiccups.

"Oh, dear Lucia was nice enough for a night, but I'll admit, the things she had to say were considerably more interesting than her bosom, and I do not utter such words lightly."

Natalia busied herself with the dissection of the overcooked piece of meat on her plate to drown out the sheer bloodlust that overcame her. It would be all too easy to throw her dagger across the table into Hammer's throat; the fool had no idea the sole reason for his continued survival was the unequaled self-control she possessed.

"So?" the other Lord asked, tone bordering on impatience. 

Von Doom's expression was one of carefully crafted indifference, but there was a spark of interest glinting in his eyes that Natasha did not fail to notice.

Hammer breezed right past this subtle reaction, his attention shifting inward as he circled the rim of his empty cup in thought. 

“We are all well aware that Anthony is quite peculiar in many ways. Gods, he put a woman in charge of his finances! But, ah, as much as he likes to allow them in places they simply do not belong in, he does not appear to enjoy their company very much beyond that,” Hammer said, taking a dramatic pause as he looked up from his cup. “So, when I learned that Lord Stark’s chambers haven been quite well-frequented by people most definitely not belonging to the fairer sex in the past, I cannot say I was particularly amazed. A man who sympathizes with whores would know to take it like one as well, I suppose.”

Although the choice of words was insulting and infuriating, it was then that the pieces clicked into place. Natalia was not left with much time to contemplate this revelation about the resident Lord, as someone caused commotion at the end of the dining table. 

It was a tall man, with bright hair and a shortsword in a sheath swinging from his hip. The steel blue chestplate identified him as one of the castle’s knights that had previously stood guard at the hall’s entrance. 

As he arrived next to Hammer’s spot on the table, he drew himself up tall and looked down at the perplexed man. Around them, the Lord’s men tensed, hands searching the handles of their swords, not yet threatening but preparing for all possible outcomes. 

Natasha did not have to think about with whom she would side, should the situation escalate into a fight. 

“Lord Hammer, I have listened to you spew your lies and slander long enough. If you have quarrels with My Lord, I suggest you speak to him in person as opposed to besmirching his name while you eat and drink from his table and reside under his roof. Now, pray remove yourself from this room, or I will take it upon myself to remove you.”

The Lord appeared speechless, his mouth opening and closing in response to the uncompromising demand the guard had expressed.

Then however, his eyes narrowed, observing the man in front of him with a calculating gaze until all of a sudden his complacent grin took its place on his face yet again.

“What a surprise! Sir Rogers, is it not? I believe darling Lucia had things to say about you as well,” he smiled, teeth flashing like a vulture eyeing its prey. A warning – one which the knight wholeheartedly ignored.

“And I will be sure to have an earnest talk with the woman about her loose tongue and the type of men she chooses to share her bed with, no doubt. As for you–” he stepped back, creating enough space for Hammer to slip past him and leave the table as he gestured for the man to do so in an ever-polite manner.

Thrown off by Rogers’ unfazed response, the Lord stuttered. “You– you have no right to– I am not under your orders! Nothing but a lucky peasant is what you are, and you _cannot_ –”

“I can, and I will. Leave, Lord Hammer. Please. Do not embarrass yourself in front of your people any more than you already have,” Sir Rogers said, his calm voice almost slipping into resignation.

These words seemed to fulfill their purpose, however – the drunken Lord stood abruptly and stumbled past the rows of chairs, his guard quickly following suit. The prospect of public humiliation appeared to be more frightening to him than any threat of violence.

When Hammer and his entourage had exited the hall, the deafening silence broke and people slowly returned to their private dialogues. As the many pairs of eyes turned away from him, Sir Rogers exhaled in visible relief but startled when he caught Natasha still observing him.

“Well, Sir Rogers, I suppose I should be thanking you. Had I been made to listen to this fool for a minute longer, the ensuing bloodbath would've been sure to disturb the day's peaceful celebrations."

The man appeared stunned for a moment, but chuckled in amusement and then took her hand when she offered it for a handshake. His grip was firm but not uncomfortably so, and the thoughts reflected in his eyes were of the opposite nature than Hammer's had been, who had brimmed with judgment and disdain for her people. 

It was a welcome change. 

–

The highlight of the following day's tourney was, without doubt, the last of the challenges, which was held to decide which knight of the Iron Guard would follow in Lord Rhodes' footprints. 

Any other man of the ruling class would have acted with reason and appointed the next Captain of Guard himself instead of taking a wild gamble and allowing an array of games choose who would be commanding his guard, but as had already been proven time after time, Anthony Stark did care for neither rhyme nor reason. 

Lord Stark cared for excitement and extravagance, and this tournament was nothing if not that.

A dozen knights took part in the twelve challenges, the contests reaching from bare-knuckle fights to spear-throws and horsemanship. From his place far up on the tribune, bracketed by Lord Rhodes and Ms. Potts on either side, the resident Lord had a view of the entire arena, and he was visibly and audibly invested in the ongoing events. 

Natalia mused that he was likely to simply enjoy watching a group of men in a show of brute strength, but she opted to keep this notion to herself. 

Although Lord Anthony did not appear to root for anyone in particular while the tournament was in full effect, he also did not bother to hide the broad, contented smile splitting his face in two when the game master announced the results of the twelve challenges and thereupon declared Sir Rogers the unambiguous victor. 

As he was called to come forward, the knight bore his way through a crowd of contestants and finally emerged, strained smiles and wild gaze belying the discomfort he seemed to feel upon having the people’s undivided attention thrust upon him.

Despite his apparent unwillingness to step forward, Rogers held his head high as he walked into the center of the arena, where they'd raised a round platform that Lord Stark insisted was only to be addressed by the name of _Winner's Circle_. 

The Lord himself had made his way down from the tribune in the meantime, bright fur cloak swinging behind him as he approached the men on the podium. Next to him walked a tall, blonde woman who was clad in leathers and ringmail and carried an impressive sword in her gloved hand. 

Coming to a stand before the knight to be appointed Captain, Lord Stark urged the crowd to give another round of applause for the victor – and they did, screaming and whistling and stomping like a hoard of crazed boars.

Natalia could swear the knight, as he stood out there and endured the audience's cheers, smiled fondly and _rolled his eyes_ at his Lord, but the moment passed in a flurry and she couldn't be sure whether she had imagined it by the end. 

As the noise died down, Stark began to speak, words carefully selected in a way that made clear he had practiced until he knew them by heart. 

"Sir Steven Grant Rogers, it is my personal honor as the 12th Lord Stark of Mar'vill, to hereby name you Commander of the Iron Guard and every man–" the woman next to him shot him a narrow-eyed look, "uh, person in the Far Lands who has pledged allegiance to me and my name."

Lord Anthony paused as he received the sword from the woman to his left, balancing its length on both his open palms to present it to the knight in front of him. Its blade was forged of the same blue steel found in his guard's armor, only that in this weapon its lethality was unparalleled.

Even the act of balancing the bare steel on one's palms would require extreme caution and a certain _fingerspitzengefühl_ , Natasha was sure. A single wrong movement and one would find oneself cut open by its edge. 

It felt uncharacteristic for the Lord to go to these lengths to hold a formal renomination ceremony for the Captain of Guard, seeing as he typically refused to take part in all dated civility simply out of spite.

Just, perhaps, the bond between Lord and knight was not an ordinary one. Perhaps… there was more than met the eye. 

With the weapon as firmly secured as could be, Stark cleared his throat and resumed his speech, "I bestow this greatsword upon you to consolidate your position amongst the people. Carry it as a symbol of the responsibility placed in your hands, and carry it with the deliberation and wisdom of the men that came before you."

In a slow, calculated motion, Anthony passed the weapon to the knight, who had already stretched out his arms and turned his palms up in anticipation.

The Lord made a point of meeting the other's gaze during the last of his words, his smile softer than maybe he himself realized. 

"Captain Rogers, may the Gods guide your hand as you guide this sword." 

### 3.

After old Master Yinsen had passed, the castle was in dire need of someone with all the qualifications necessary to take over his many duties. 

It was nothing but sheer luck that Bruce Banner's travels had led him to Hattam on the day the Lord's messenger rode up to the town square and announced that they would be hearing out applicants for the position. 

Lord Stark was said to have been close with his late physician and, naturally, felt reluctant to let an outsider slip into his role. Bruce understood these conflicting emotions that caused the man to keep him at an arm's length.

It took its time, but when Anthony eventually came around, he quickly began to seek out Bruce's company every day anew.

Anthony liked to talk. Whether he loved to hear his own voice or could simply not keep any one piece of information to himself was a mystery yet to be solved. 

Bruce soon came to know that the Lord had always loved riding, and he had always loved his horses. The man claimed he'd grown up on horseback, though it stood to reason that he had spent more time in the back of a wheelhouse than on the horse itself.

Bruce did not doubt Anthony's love for the animals; he did, however, doubt that the man had at any point been graced with the aptitude or tact that made for a good rider.

Ever since Bruce had first taken up permanent residence in the Iron Castle, he would watch the Lord go out on rides into the deep woods and lush plains of Mar'vill every fortnight only to return with various aches he frequently and vocally complained about in his physician's presence.

The man's tales were colorfully illustrated and never the same – once, the cinch had not been pulled tight enough and the saddle slipped out under him; on a different occasion, his horse had been spooked by a snake in the bushes, and during another time, the rocky terrain caused his mare to stumble and he fell, unprepared.

Lord Stark seemed to land on his backside quite a lot.

Not even Sir Steven Rogers himself appeared to be capable of preventing Anthony's unfortunate accidents from happening.

The Captain of the Guard was a straight-faced, level-headed and at times almost unpleasant man, but nothing and no-one could match his sense of duty or escape his watchful eye, not even a snipe snake hidden away in the undergrowth. He was nothing if not a master strategist, his mind half a dozen steps ahead at all times and his title most deserved.

In light of all this, the man's apparent inability to keep his Lord safe during such outings that barely passed as adventurous seemed rather strange. 

No matter the time of week or the pressing matters at hand that begged to be attended to, Lord Stark _insisted_ it be Sir Rogers who accompanied him on his forays into the Far Lands. While the man kept an open mind and welcomed every voice that spoke up among the commons, not a soul dared to dissuade him from this. 

When Bruce initially found himself under Anthony's regency, the first unwritten law of the Iron Castle soon rang loud and clear: do not ask Lord Stark for what reason the Man of Iron, Slayer of Thanos the Tyrant and Protector of the Kingdom of Shields needs to be escorted by the highest knight (and only the highest knight) in his guard on his rides through his very own lands.

Bruce was not the kind to ask many questions, so he did not find much difficulty in obeying the rule. Being of a rather reserved temperament himself – long as no-one dared to anger him – he knew to leave others to their secrets. 

This was not to say he hadn't heard about the rumors, of course. Even if he had tried not to listen, the whispers were loud even in a deaf man's ears. This was not a figure of speech – Stark's best bowman, a fellow named Clint who had lost his hearing at a young age, was in no way less aware of the things people told. In fact, he appeared to be one of the greatest conspirators inside the castle gates himself. 

Soon after learning of the man's impairment, Bruce was shown the system the castle's masters had worked out under Stark's command – a silent language, spoken through gestures and movements of a person's hands.

He did not bother to conceal his wonder; the unspoken language was quite remarkable. Everyone of importance was required to be taught in it, and Bruce did so with genuine delight. It was not after long that he began suggesting possible improvements of his own. 

In any case, conversations with Clint the archer often reverted back to gossip, which prominently featured Lord Stark and his rather gossip-worthy relation to Sir Rogers. Bruce was still of the firm belief that none of it concerned him, yet he was forced to fold when Barton inquired his opinion on the affair and insisted he answer truthfully. 

It was difficult not to notice the cause for the rumors – for one, there was Anthony's peculiar behavior.

For another, there was the Captain, whom Bruce had not yet entirely figured out. Most interesting were the times he crossed paths with the man after he had just returned from his rides with the Lord – he was almost jovial, greeted every woman and man in the castle with an easy smile and was never to be found with the customary frown or scowl that on other days so often graced his hardened features. 

On this one particular day, however, Sir Rogers came barging into Bruce's chambers without so much as a knock, cursing like a man gone mad with a moaning bundle of cloth in his arms.

The physician had jumped from his seat the very moment the door swung open and was on his way to assess the situation.

As it turned out, the Captain's rather impolite entrance was not entirely without cause; in his arms, clutching onto his linen shirt, lay no other than Lord Stark, who had never complained as vocally about any of his supposed ailments than he did then.

One look at him sufficed to determine what caused his pain: the ankle of his bare right foot was swollen with dark bruises underneath a makeshift bandage haphazardly wrapped around it. 

Bruce instructed the man lay him out on the raised cot on the far side of the room so he could determine how much damage was done. As he carefully unwrapped the bandages, Anthony squirming with discomfort, he looked at Rogers still on the other side of the table and inquired, "How did this happen?"

The knight's face darkened at the question. Bruce suspected an unexpected encounter with raiders or other men that meant them harm, but his assumptions were thrown overboard when Sir Steven cast a pointed glare at the Lord, chagrin audible in his next words.

"Why, Anthony, answer the doctor's question. What _did_ happen, pray tell?"

The Lord's response was to scowl and then avert his gaze, bashful. He cleared his throat and sucked in a hissing breath as Bruce pulled the bandages free.

"Well, I may have overestimated my abilities a tad and consequently been thrown off that devil of a horse during a, uh, vault over the river," he allowed, eyes narrowing when Rogers lifted his eyebrows urging him to go on. "I _miscalculated_! Not for the first time, and certainly not the last. Will you stop looking–"

Bruce tuned out the man's continued drivel to gather his equipment and supplies from the counters and cabinets in the chamber, returning to the two men right as the blond threw his hands up into the air.

"It is _not_ about any of this! You were in no way familiar with that animal and did not have the faintest notion how it would handle that jump."

Ah, there was the core of the issue. Bruce remembered it, that impressive souvenir Lord Rhodes had brought with him a fortnight ago from last year's travels to the Frost Lands when he'd helped negotiate a peace treaty.

Rhodes had spared no expense and gifted him a S'vjetian Red Devil, a great, hot-tempered hunk of a horse that lived up to its name. The rare breed had once been reserved solely for their people's warriors, favored due to its stamina and resilience in battle, but lost popularity with time passing and extended periods of peace when the population began to seek more agile and flexible mounts. 

Anthony was glaring daggers at Sir Steven but did not respond, opting to allow his body previously propped up on his forearms fall back onto the cot, energy reserves leaving him through a shuddering exhale. With a grimace accentuating the lines in his face and sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, he looked even worse for wear.

"Seeing as you are visibly upsetting my patient, I would deem it wise for you to remove yourself from this environment for the time being, Sir Rogers," Bruce commented, voice dangerously even. 

The people of the castle – knights included – had long learned that their resident physician was not to be provoked.

From a purely unbiased perspective, Bruce shared Captain Rogers' opinion; often times Lord Stark would behave foolishy at best and recklessly at worst, and this appeared to be one of his most foolhardy endeavors yet.

Still, the physician had no use for bystanders whose only purpose was to further trouble his patients, whatever the reason or however they may relate to one another.

Anthony shot upright at his words, wincing as the movement caused his injured ankle to stir and send more spikes of agony through his body. " _No_ ," he near growled, voice laced with pain yet commanding. "He stays."

Bruce raised an eyebrow but chose not to object, instead dragging a wheeled tray up to the cot before he returned to his workstation.

He had just recently created a novel mixture of plants and herbs that would have a sedative effect upon inhalation, and was now looking to (rather deviously) use his newest patient as a test subject.

Spreading out the pre-made mixture of unripe mulberry, flax, mandragora leaves and a good many more ingredients on a thin piece of cloth, the physician cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. The two other men were conversing quietly, Rogers' expression having softened with sympathy in the face of the pitiful sight Anthony made for.

He returned with the mixture wrapped in cloth and handed it to Lord Stark, who pulled a displeased face at its strange smell. "You will want this," Bruce simply remarked. "Inhale it." 

He would have offered a sip of some strong spirit as well, but he knew better; Anthony Stark had not been a drunkard in a long time, and Bruce was not going to be the one to break the man's resolve when he was out of his mind with pain.

Positioning himself at the foot of the cot, he searched Anthony's eyes in silent question, the other nodding curtly and giving him permission to proceed.

Bruce attempted to make quick (but precise) work of it, feeling along the mottled skin to evaluate the severity of the injury. Lord Stark only hissed and inhaled steadying breaths but not once moaned aloud, which he filed away as another positive.

The one time the physician looked up from his work to ensure his patient was still faring comparatively well, the man had taken hold of Sir Rogers' hand and was digging clawed fingers into his skin with a strain that turned his knuckles white.

"Sprained," Bruce stated, finally, the injured man's breath of relief audible from the other end of the cot.

He had been fortunate; a fractured bone was an ugly affair, especially one in the ankle. The procedure of resetting the broken pieces was an agonizing one, both for the patient and, to some extent, the surgeon.

Bruce went ahead to apply a cooling paste and wrapped the foot in fresh bandages. By the time he began fixing a splint to Anthony's leg, two flat pieces of wood that would force his foot into a fixed position and limit its movement so as to prevent him from disturbing the healing process, the brunet was barely reacting at all but for subdued groans of discomfort. 

The natural opioid had performed remarkably well, lulling the man into a state of mind that left him much less receptive to pain. His eyes were drooping close every now and then, lips curving into a lazy smile when Bruce pat his shoulder in passing and declared the procedure over.

They would have to repeat it come another day, but he decided to let this sobering information go unmentioned for the time being. He moved to the adjoining room to store away his remedies, taking inventory of the ingredients left as he did.

The position of the furniture allowed him to see into the other chamber if he just leaned to the side a small bit.

Sir Steven was sitting on Bruce's stool on Anthony's side, his left hand still clasped tightly around the other man's while the right one was placed in his hair, stroking. Faintly, the physician was able to make out Lord Stark's slurred words, "You mad a'me?"

The blond firmly shook his head. "Worried. You _worry_ me. Please stop choosing to put yourself in what you know is harm's way. You may not care for your own well-being, but I do."

Not one to intrude on a scene not meant for him, Bruce turned away, averting his eyes and blocking out their voices.

Had he witnessed it, Clint would boast and then jest about having quite the ear for the truth. Of course, Bruce would not share any of it with the archer; as much as the man loved to gossip and meant no harm, this pet interest of his was not of as much importance as another's right to privacy.

It was none of their concern.

### 4.

Carol Danvers grew up stubborn, and she grew up mean. 

She had never been interested in being a damsel in need of rescuing to make a knight in shining armor feel accomplished. If anything, she wanted to wear the armor and would rescue damsels if needed. 

Her parents employed an old housekeeper, a man who had fought in the wars of old and was now left with a limp and no coin to his name. Young Carol, only seven at the time, had been intrigued for as long as she could remember, and finally worked up the courage to plead him to teach her how to wield a sword. 

"Oh, child," he laughed, but taught her anyway. Later, she would know that it was because he, too, craved for someone to listen to his words and wisdoms. 

In fact, Carol realized as she grew, she was not interested in much beyond the art of swords and the art that was other maidens.

Much to the dismay of her late mother, who had desperately tried to betroth her to a wealthy trademan from her sister's husband's family until the day she breathed her last breath after a short but severe sickness. 

Carol, though it pained her, could not comply by her last wish. 

She had been following her heart's wants ever since, and she would not stop now. If she were to marry a man and give up her love for adventure in favor of a quiet life hidden away in a homestead somewhere, she might die of unhappiness. This was not what her mother would have truly wanted for her, she was sure. 

On her twentieth birthday, her old maestro died. Carol was angry. Carol ~~snuck into~~ invaded the Iron Castle. Admittedly, it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, but she believed she now had a point to prove. 

She posted herself in the courtyard and refused to move until the Lord would see her.

The castle's residents could not do much but oblige by the demand, seeing as she had taken out every guard in the vicinity. Gods, she had not killed them – that would have surely been reason enough to get her hanged – but they were either passed out or injured to a minor degree. 

"What is this commotion?" young Lord Stark asked, anger in his tone calling for answers as he strode onto the courtyard. He was closely followed by his steward, Ms. Potts. 

"I am just as capable as any of your men," Carol said and pointed to the couple of guards that lay unconscious by the drawbridge. "And anyone in your position with their wits together, Lord Stark, would allow me at least a chance to prove myself as a member of their guard." 

The Lord halted in his step, a sensible amount of distance still between them. He regarded her curiously, and his lip twitched as if he did not know whether to smile. 

"Is this everything? Have you– asked for this before and I rejected you? Because I cannot recall for the life of me." 

Carol cleared her throat and scratched the back of her head with the hand that was not gripping her rusty, old sword tightly. Again – this had been a very spontaneous endeavor. 

"Well, no. I have not. But it is common knowledge that you Starks think highly of old values, and your father–" 

Lord Stark bared a tight smile. "I am not my father," he returned sharply. "And I would like to offer you a place in the Iron Guard, as long as you promise to refrain from rendering them all useless to prove any future points you may see fit to prove, Miss…"

Carol perked up. "Danvers. Carol. My Lord." 

Sir James Rhodes gaped like a fish out of water when they first came face to face, apparently reminded of his past, childish infatuation with her. But if there was one thing they were no more, it was two youngsters.

Now that she had the chance, Carol was determined to prove herself amongst Stark's guard. She only hoped the Captain of Guard would not make this matter harder for her in an act of petty revenge – men were known to do such things in the name of what they considered to be love. 

It turned out her worries were entirely unfounded, as Sir Rhodes was, despite his position in the Iron Guard, not one to abuse it for evil. Many became prone to wrongdoings once they had tasted a sip from the goblet of power, but this one seemed just as earnest as the day he had been when he asked for young Carol's hand.

Never did the man attempt to make her duties more cumbersome, just like he did not allow anyone to go easy on her during their trainings. It was on her to earn her keep – and Carol did.

Hardly any knight of the Iron Guard was fit to hold a candle to her and the skills she had made her own. Some of them were not enthused about this fact, hurt in their pride and manliness, while some others warmed up to her after a while. 

In an attempt to discourage her, a few knights began to jokingly refer to her as _The Great Siree Danvers_ , mocking the simple reality that no true title for a woman knight even existed. Carol, in turn, took this name and henceforth introduced herself as one Siree Danvers to everyone she met, which deterred the jokesters quickly enough. 

Carol did not care for their approval in any case. She was happy about the camaraderie of the few that had reconciled themselves to her presence, but everything else did not matter long as she remained fit to serve in the guard. 

It had always been her childhood dream, after all. 

Her efforts did not go unnoticed. Sir Rhodes approached her after an afternoon's session of training, inquiring about her knowledge of what a well-equipped armory was to hold. She found this to be curious, as the man knew quite well of all her knowledge, but she recited the requirements she believed to be of highest importance still. 

"And what do you think of our armory as it is?" 

This was a trick question, she realized. James Rhodes was impressively impassive when he set his mind to it, but he had never been one to prefer a comfortable lie over a discomforting truth. 

"Dreadful. We would not last a day under a larger attack, and you are aware of it." 

And such went the tale of how Siree Danvers became the Iron Castle's master-at-arms. 

This year and all the ones to come, she saw to it that the armory was steadily improved, expanded and replenished. It was a task she found joy in, and the position earned her respect amongst the castle's inhabitants as well. 

No single man wanted to be handed a poorly balanced sword and turned into laughing stock in front of the whole guard during a sword fight amongst the best of them. 

On one particular day, Siree Danvers made her way into the armory when the sun already stood low on the horizon.

She meant to take an account of what would have to be taken care of the next day, but slowed in her step when she heard… curious noises from one place inside the building. 

She only paused for a moment before her feet carried her toward one of the rooms, at the entrance of which she promptly remained frozen in place. Unable to avert her eyes from the sight she was greeted by, Carol observed. 

Between armor plates and polished steel, Lord Stark was plastered against the back of the stone wall, most of him hidden from vision by the tall man pressed into his front. His fingers had turned white-knuckled as they curled into the ringmail shirt the man was wearing over boiled leather. 

The Lord had bare legs wrapped around the others' middle, a man who Siree Danvers believed was Sir Rogers. Anthony's left foot, to this day covered in bandages from the time he had injured it on one of his rides three weeks ago, stuck out like a sore thumb against the dark leather of the man's breeches. The cropped, blond hair on him and the broad stature made her suspect, but his voice betrayed the truth.

"I wonder," he said, inaudible but for a low rasp, "what they would think of this. Don't you, My Lord? Just _what_ would your people say if they saw you right this moment?"

The words coaxed a deep, guttural sound out of the man whose eyes rolled into the back of his head as he swallowed noisily, grip on the ringmail spasming. 

"They would–" he paused, Adam's apple bobbing once more. Sir Steven moved in a way that elicited a sharp intake of breath from the other man. "They would call me the _whore_ lord. They–"

The Captain uttered a choked noise that only barely resembled a laugh.

"Don't they already, Lord Stark?"

With Sir Steven's words, the Lord shuddered violently and desperately bucked into the other's hold, his mouth falling open in a long-drawn _oh_ while his head thumped against the wall to his back.

Carol recoiled as she understood what she had witnessed, almost knocking over the bucket at her feet and betraying her presence to the men in the corner who, still in the throes of their pleasure, had not taken notice of her. Yet.

She hastily turned and exited the armory, posting herself at the entrance to ensure nobody else was going to stumble upon the scene inside.

The task kept her thoughts away from the matter at hand for a while, but the vivid images in her head soon became too prevalent to ignore. In truth, she felt discomforted rather than surprised. Lord Stark's tastes were an open secret amongst the people inside the castle gates, and that Sir Rogers was the man to meet those tastes – as Carol understood it, this was to be expected. 

She only wished she had not been the one to be exposed to this rather private moment. At the same time still, she felt relieved.

Rumors, those were one thing, yet a confirmation of the truth was of an entirely different nature. Folk liked to gossip, but quite enough of them would not like hearing (or, Gods forbid, seeing) that their dear Lord was truly as depraved as the town's rumor mills insinuated. 

Siree Danvers did not care for the things proclaimed right and just in the eyes of others. In any case, everyone had their own idea of morale and honor – some drew the line at infidelity, other men saw no wrong in fathering a bastard or two.

There were various misdeeds she frowned upon; the love of two who loved deeply and genuinely was not one of them. If ever one found this secret true as she had and used it to bring harm to the men involved, she would be more than delighted to bring that wicked person down with her very own hands. 

Not even a Lord as well-liked as Lord Stark would have all the people's good will in a matter where old, misplaced sentiments were as indisputable as time itself.

He surely was aware of this, and yet, under the layer of flippant arrogance bestowed upon him by his father, Anthony Stark remained a kind-hearted and compassionate man who guarded his land and its people like the apple of his eye. 

She stayed positioned at the armory until two pairs of feet approached from behind; then, the master-at-arms strode back inside, amicably greeting the men she'd caught in the act without their knowledge. Anthony's burgundy vest seemed to have been buttoned the wrong way, but she knew better than to stare or waste a word on it.

Nobody asked, and Carol would not tell.

She spoke only to Maria, whom she returned home to as night fell. Her lover and wife-at-heart greeted her with a kiss almost as soft as her smile, and she could read Carol like any open book. 

After she had sent young Monica to sleep – her daughter of eight years only obeying after having a thorough exchange with Carol about her day's work and the mean boy from the fish market – Maria inquired what was on her mind, a hand on Carol's thigh and another caressing a cheek as they lay in their shared bed. 

Carol spoke, indeed, though she chose to withhold the more unpleasant details of the encounter. "I decided to keep my observations to myself. They need not know I happened to come across this, ah, private scene," she finished, regarding the other woman with an expectant gaze.

The reaction she received was not the one she had expected or hoped for, truth be told. After a moment of silence, Maria sat upright, withdrawing her hands from their place around Carol's waist. Brows drawn together, she said, "Love, I adore you, but this must be the most fatuous thing I have ever heard."

When Carol only met her eyes with a befuddled expression, Maria sighed long-sufferingly and elaborated, "Your intentions to spare them and yourself an uncomfortable confrontation are _noble_ , without doubt," the blonde scowled in response to her lover's giggles, "but they are misguided. You won't do these foolish men any favors by allowing them to continue to think themselves safe. Talk some sense into them, will you?"

Carol was hard pressed to admit that her words held truth. Lord Stark may rule over his land with genuine kindness and treated all its people like equals, but with that there unfortunately came no guarantee of safety or extended leniency for deeds frowned upon within its borders.

There was no telling how the wrong person coming to find this truth like she had would harm his authority. 

"Alright, darling. Gods know they could use my advice, being a seasoned secret-keeper myself."

### 5.

Anthony Stark was a practical man.

If there was no smith available, he would forge the blade himself. If there was no knight to wield the sword, he would ride into battle alone. If the fight was not to be settled without a sacrifice, he would lay down his own life.

Yet, Lord Stark had led armies to war, and his heart had not ceased beating. To some, he was the Man of Iron, to others he was Lord Stark, and to a precious few, he was simply Anthony. 

The man had bid Peter to address him by his given name as well, but the word still felt unfamiliar (and undeserved) on his tongue. 

They had met only by happenstance in his Aunt May’s alehouse, where Peter had been helping serve patrons and clean crockery ever since he was entrusted to her care after his parents died. He’d been too young to understand back then, and so he was never told what had truly transpired on that day – he knew now they had found their end through another’s hand, and that was quite enough. 

As his aunt was said to sell some of the best pale ale in all of Hattam, visitors from within the castle walls were no rarity. Of course, nobody in the establishment ever quite expected the Lord himself to make an appearance, although others claimed he had, when in the mood for it, mingled with the commons many times prior. 

Funnily, Lord Stark did not even want for his aunt’s famed ale – although the woman knight in his company did drink to cover both his and her own share – and instead asked for a blueberry pie, which was another specialty of the house in its own right.

Peter had tried not to stare at the two visitors as he stood behind the counter, washing the seemingly never-ending supply of used mugs and plates.

It appeared he’d been unsuccessful in this endeavor, since a few moments later, Lord Stark inquired what it was he was doing there. The young man could only stutter at being addressed so suddenly and called out for his behavior – until the Lord smiled and pointed at Peter’s workstation, “That is quite the interesting contraption. Who thought to make it?”

“Uh,” he answered, intelligently.

Nobody besides May and the other workers had ever taken notice of his newest invention. It was simple enough: Two buckets, one on the floor and one on the cabinet, connected through a tube of braided twigs and leaves so as to keep it leak-proof. The perforated end of another, similar tube was in Peter’s hand, producing a steady spray of water that varied in intensity depending on how quickly he worked the pedal at his feet that was connected to a mechanism within the base of the bucket and helped pump the liquid upward.

Lord Stark raised a brow, expectant. 

“Me,” Peter rushed to say. The Lord, understandably, did not believe him until he had explained the functionality of the device to him in an amount of detail that only its creator would be capable of.

After this incident, he had been invited to the castle on more than one occasion. He had declined the request the first two times on account of having to help out his aunt (although in truth, he was simply anxious for his life), but was made to go by the woman herself when the messenger arrived for a third time.

Anthony Stark had invited him to, as Peter came to know soon enough, offer him a position among the castle’s staff to aid him, the Lord in person, think of more such inventions that would benefit all people in the Far Lands.

Peter refused. 

Refused to take up residence in the castle. The proposition itself, well – Peter did not have to ponder it for long.

So it came that, only a year later, the young man had turned into an often-seen and well-liked face inside the castle’s gates. He frequented the Iron Castle daily and felt at home within its walls, familiar with every stone and every person it inhabited.

Today, it was Ms. Potts who greeted him on his way to the workroom where he would typically meet with Anthony to put their most recent stroke of genius into practice. 

“Anthony tells me he would like for you to see him in the Old Chambers in the eastern tower today,” the steward informed him, voice impartial as ever as she relaid the unusual news.

Peter just barely kept from gaping at the woman in bewilderment. “But that’s where they keep the– Where the family tomb is…?”

She nodded, “Indeed. Now, be good and escort yourself there, will you? There seem to be a million things that require my attention today and it is not even noon yet.”

With these words, she spoke her goodbye and took a right at the next corridor, approaching a set of stairs and disappearing from view a beat later. 

Peter stared at the now empty space in front of him before he gathered his bearings and made his way down the left hallway that would eventually take him to the desired location.

The further he descended into the lower floors of the castle, the colder the air became. Moss entwined the old stone here, moisture making it appear slick and lustrous in the faint light of the odd candle lit in a rusty holder long ago hammered into the rock.

Having arrived at the very bottom of the spiral staircase, Peter followed the only illuminated corridor to its other end, the great, spruce wood double-doors there already wide open to allow him entrance.

As he stepped foot into the dimly lit hall, his every move reverberated in the large, circular space. The Starks' burial chamber was not as palatial or magnificent as one might assume, yet on second thought, it made perfect sense.

At their core, they were not a family of highborn royals that had had riches and power laid at their feet from the very day they first fed at their mother’s breast, but rose to power by virtue of their ingenuity, resourcefulness and contrarian thinking. 

The 12th Lord Stark in a line of builders, creators and pioneers turned to look at Peter when the young man approached, still unsure of the nature of this encounter. His agitation had to be palpable, because as Anthony waved him closer he smiled reassuringly. 

“You know, me and my father… we didn’t agree on many things. In fact, I am positive he is rolling in his grave as I speak,” the Lord chuckled, a dry and humorless sound, looking up at the once-live man that was leveling them with an austere gaze from the oil painting on the wall in front of them. It was the late Lord Howard, in all his hard-mannered, unsmiling glory. 

“One thing he never quite grasped was that my unwillingness to find a spouse and produce an heir did not stem from an unwillingness to carry this legacy. No, it’s… the opposite, really. I care for these lands, for this people, and I want nothing more than to know that when I go, it will be left within good hands.”

Peter felt his breathing grow labored as he listened to the words and seldom-shown emotion in Anthony’s voice. It was only after a moment of long silence that he spoke, turning to look at the other man who was still staring into the unblinking eyes of the Lord Stark that had come before him. 

“Why is it that you are telling me all this?” Peter questioned, tone uncharacteristically measured.

“I will never have an heir, 'least not in the way dear old Howard intended, that is. Still, that does not mean I haven’t been looking tirelessly for one outside the Stark lineage. And, well…” 

The Lord's words faded into silence and he now moved to face him as well, a small, muted trace of his previously broad smile left.

"You, Peter. I would like for it to be you." 

Peter would not admit to it later, but the pitch of his voice promptly rose to a squeak.

"Wh– _Me?_ Why?" 

Lord Stark laughed out loud, a bright sound that echoed along the chamber's ancient walls and chided Peter for his youthful naiveté. 

"Why? You are kind, compassionate, humble, intelligent, resilient. At times, you see things I do not. I intend to make many more changes until such a time when you would be to take over, but I am limited by my time. You, however? You are– the future."

Overwhelmed, Peter exhaled a shaky breath. One of his hands had found its way into his hair at the back of his skull, tugging as if it might hold him should he fall. 

He had been aware Anthony liked him well enough – they had spent a considerable amount of time in one another's presence in these past months and found that they not only shared a passion for the new and uncharted, but shared also opinions on every aspect that mattered.

Yet, it was difficult to imagine that the man thought him capable to take his place one day. The prospect seemed otherworldly, almost. 

In the end, Peter still derived from a simple family. He had no highborn ancestors to show for, no blue blood running in his veins. The first words he returned in response to Lord Stark's offer were to remind him of the young man's origin; words which were of no use, as the other was quick to render this argument void. 

"That is of no importance. I have spoken to all the people I value most in life, and they agree that I would do well to choose you. Your aunt approves as well, although she deems it important I remind you that you're free to deny me – and you are, I hope you're aware."

Peter swallowed. Well, if Anthony was convinced… he certainly had to have put many a thought in this decision.

Although he was careless in many ways, this was not one of them. Not even Lord Stark would simply appoint an heir on a whim; no, this was his life blood. If he considered Peter to be fit to follow in his footsteps, there had to be solid reasoning supporting this arbitration. 

"I suppose – well, I would need to contemplate my final answer for a while, but if you are sure I am what you wish for in a successor, then I would be honored to accept," he said, congratulating himself for how expertly he'd hidden the waver in his voice. 

Anthony smiled, the strain in the curve of his lips gone, its existence only evident now that it had disappeared. "I am glad," he stated, audible relief proving his words true. 

Naturally, Peter could not help himself. "How would… you be able to arrange this? Handing it all over to me, I mean. Surely it is not that easy?"

The easy expression went as quick as it had come. Lord Stark cleared his throat and looked down at his tightly clasped hands in front of him. He sniffed and returned Peter's inquisitive gaze, the faint lines around his eyes suddenly more prominent. 

"People already seem to believe that you are a bastard I fathered and have been made to raise in my home, which is, as we know, a perverse abomination of the truth. But while I detest the way some choose to speak about you, I have to admit these whispers are a welcome counterweight to a number of other, popular rumors."

He flashed a sliver of teeth in an apologetic smile. "I am sure you have heard." 

Peter had. Although he had never pried, it had been quite hard to avoid. He had long decided that it did not change anything; Anthony Stark had seen his potential in disregard of everything that may have another of his status turn his back before he'd even taken a proper look at his true capabilities and qualities.

Nothing that Peter had come to know of him in the past year even hinted at the fact that he was a bad man in any sense of the word – he did not need to know more. 

"Is it true?" he blurted nevertheless, unable to quench his curiosity despite promising himself he would not ask. "I– well, I am aware you and Captain Rogers are close, but–" 

"Yes," Anthony answered, in matter of fact. He sighed, eyes fleetingly squeezing close and fluttering back open again. 

"See, it's never been a, ah, physical matter that has prevented me from siring a child. Some things would have just been easier if I had been born a woman." He paused. "And others much harder, I suppose." 

They both contemplated this for a moment, the words settling heavy in the room, crawling away and squeezing in-between the cracks of the old stone and the graves within.

Maybe they would rouse the angry spirits of long-gone Starks woken from their forever-sleep to come down upon Anthony for disrupting their line of descent. 

Peter squared his jaw. He may not be able to relieve the Lord of all those thoughts and somber what-ifs, but he could lift one worry off his mind.

Lord Parker did not sound all too bad, now did it? 

### +1

"She knows, Anthony! Gods, how are you not bothered by this?"

"Did she not say she would not breathe a word of it? I understand those were her exact words. Believe me, Carol Danvers is on our side in matters of the heart."

"Fine. So, what if someone else catches us? Somebody whose loyalty does not reach as far?"

"Well, Sir Rogers, I believe we will just have to keep our carnal desires away from the castle, wouldn't you agree?"

"I– yes."

"Or, if you were feeling quite so bold, you may visit me at a later hour. Might be the high and mighty Lord Stark needs protecting in his bedchambers now as well. Who is to know what could possibly be lurking out there?"

Steven stared for a moment, stunned to the point his mouth fell agape. Then, he slumped into the overstuffed armchair behind, pinching the bridge of his nose in soundless defeat.

“That is the polar opposite of what Carol advised us to do,” he replied, sounding pained.

Detecting movement in front of him, the Captain raised his head only to be met with the other's midsection blocking his field of view. He did not get an opportunity to speak – Anthony climbed onto the large chair as well, moving with astounding speed as he placed his knees on either side of Steven's lap to sit down without a second of hesitation. 

"Oh, well. Sometimes, there are risks to be taken and leaps of faith to be made," he answered, voice low and smile playful as he shuffled further into the blond's space. 

Steven attempted to calm his stuttering breath and quickening heartbeat. The door was unlocked; any moment now, one of the castle's many inhabitants might open it and stumble upon the scene on the other side. 

_Gods damn you,_ he thought as he felt his member only stir in the confines of his breeches, clearly finding the prospect to be exciting rather than unsettling. Still firmly seated in his lap, Anthony did not fail to notice. He smirked, a spark of something wicked in his eyes as he bore down onto his groin. 

It took all Steven's might to suppress a gasp and the twitch of his fingers that wanted so desperately to hold onto the man’s waist and ensure he would stay seated right where he was. 

The knight cleared his throat to shed the all too telling rasp he knew his voice must have taken on – although it would do little to aid him deny Anthony's bold proposal, seeing as his body had already betrayed his interest.

He chose his next words with care, wanting to distract from the matter with a dry tone, "Sometimes, yes. Not every time the opportunity presents itself."

Anthony wound satin-clad arms around his neck and smiled, carding his fingers through the strands of hair at the back of Steven's skull. 

"I loathe to remind you, beloved, but if I had not embraced this one particular opportunity so many years ago, we would not be sitting here."

Steven exhaled deeply, conceding defeat. The man would shamelessly talk one's ears off if given the chance. 

"I am not doing this here. We will have to wait," he said, voice firm so as to not leave room for arguments. 

It pained him, keeping Anthony at an arm's length when everything he wanted was to proclaim his love for all to hear, but there was nothing to be done. They had known the consequences when they chose each other. 

Sighing dramatically, the brunet buried his nose in the crook of Steven's neck and made no further attempts to move. His breath was warm on the knight's skin and it took a not insignificant amount of willpower to pry Anthony off his chest instead of hugging him closer.

Surprisingly, his expression turned out to be one of thoughtful contemplation and not, as Steven had feared, hurt irritation. And, surely enough, he shared his youngest touch of genius a moment later.

"How about we ride up to the cabin? Once my foot has healed, of course. Make up for lost time?" he suggested, smiling and tilting his head to gauge Steven's reaction. "We've been wanting to go there forever, have we not? The both of us, alone. It would be a few days at the most." 

As he spoke, he was leaning in closer. Before Steven could think to respond, Anthony pressed warm lips upon his, and it was as if his mouth had a mind of its own, because it reciprocated the other's kisses with fervor and no regard for the voice of logic in his mind. 

When Anthony detached himself and leaned back there was a knowing glint in his eye. Steven's lopsided smile belied that he had long since been convinced.

"I think…" he swallowed, feeling a little dazed, "that could be arranged." 

–

They had bridled and saddled the horses. 

Anthony was leading the animals outside the stables when Steven arrived with the last bag of garments and linen they had forgotten to bring with them from the castle. He could not keep from smiling brightly at the other man once they had locked eyes, their combined excitement electrifying the air. 

While Steven tied the last bag to his mount, Anthony swung up onto his mare's back. She nickered alarmingly for a reason he couldn't seem to determine until he looked up and found Peter approaching them at a speed that had turned his face red. 

"Are you alright?" Anthony inquired, not quite able to keep the amusement out of his voice as he regarded the boy. 

Peter took another few, rapid breaths until his breathing finally slowed. Then, he nodded quickly. "Yes, yes. Where are you going?" 

Ah. The Lord smiled warmly. It seemed they had already formed a bond strong enough for the young man to be interested in his whereabouts. 

"Out. It will only be five days, you are going to be fine if you listen to Ms. Potts. She knows the ways of the castle better than I do, most days." 

Peter nodded, but after a moment, his forehead creased with a frown. "Does she know you are leaving?" 

His gaze wandered to Steven, who everyone knew was a miserable liar. Clearly, he suspected that this outing had not been approved of by the resident steward. Sometimes, the boy was more perceptive than he ought to be. 

Anthony rushed to answer and steer Peter's attention back to him, "Of course she does. What things are you accusing me of, Mr. Parker?" 

Peter did not seem convinced, but dropped his objections nevertheless and waited to wave them off when they left. 

"Safe travels," he shouted as both the knight and the Lord kicked their mounts into a leisurely trot, leaving the castle grounds and their walls behind. 

The mischievous smirk Anthony directed at Steven as soon as they had reached open land was met with an incredulous laugh. 

Ms. Potts was guaranteed to be furious. 

**Author's Note:**

> as per mcu canon, hammer is totally gay and just angry someone else gets to dick tony down. it's important to me that you know that.
> 
> thank you for reading – please consider leaving a short comment if you enjoyed!


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